by Emily Snow
Wrong.
To my relief, I must have gotten the manuscript right. There are no edits, no mistakes. The pressure in the pit of my stomach—the one that settled there eighteen months ago when I wrote the first sentence of Mercy’s story—starts to lift.
But then Trisha opens her mouth. What she says next proves how long it’s been since I’ve played the revision game: I don't have document changes showing. Two taps. Two clicks of my finger is all it takes for my screen to bleed with comments and markups. My heart plummets into my lap.
“Shit,” I release on an exhale.
She frowns. “Good shit or bad shit?”
“Not good, I promise.” I cringe at the sympathy in her dark eyes. “But I can fix it.” My promise sounds stilted. Hesitant. It's hard to project confidence when my editor’s notes blur my vision.
Lena R: This doesn't read like Existence or Essence.
Lena R: I don't sense the urgency. Or the darkness. Arlo is responsible for the apocalypse and Mercy’s falling for him! Show me that!
Lena R: This is too safe and predictable. The story is here, but it seems like you're afraid to push it to the next level. A little extra research, maybe? Let me know when you're ready to discuss.
“I can fix this.” My voice hitches along with the facade of being unaffected by Lena’s notes. “Looks like I’ll be spending my Thursday night in the writing cave.”
Shaking her head, Trisha presses her linen napkin to her mouth. “You know what they say: sleep on it for a day or two before you step into revision hell.”
We both know I’ll dive in the second we’re done with lunch. Lena’s comments won’t let me rest until I get to work. Poking at a piece of pork that’s fallen out of my slider, I suck on my bottom lip for a second and then ask, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know of any clubs like the ones from Descent, do you? Lena says I should do some research.”
While I’ve only been in New York for nine months, Trisha’s lived here her whole life. If anyone can point me in the right direction of sensual and moody, with an upscale clientele, it’s her.
Nibbling at another pickle, she pauses and thinks on my question. Finally, a wide smile stretches her face. “Eden.”
Eden. “Sounds almost biblical, huh?” All the ones back home in Jackson were called names like Aura and Verve.
A funny smile quirks her lips and she cocks her head to one side. “You can be the judge.”
I don't have time to judge anything. Yelp and Google reviews, and her description, will work just fine. “Or you can just tell me.” I drag a hand through my blonde hair and groan. “Trish.”
“Michaela,” she retorts, challenging my gaze. A breeze catches her long dark braid, whipping stray strands around her face and fuzzy green sweater. “You don’t get out enough, so this will be good for you. Be impulsive!”
*
Other than a simple website, there's nothing about Eden online. No reviews. No Facebook page. Nothing. And the website itself is frustrating. It’s only a landing page, a sign-up form with a place for name, age, phone number, and party size.
Tapping my nails against the sides of my coffee mug, I frown at my screen. Even in my father’s literary prime during the nineties, he had a functional website. A mailing address where his readers sent him fan mail. An email address.
“Where the fuck did you send me, Trish?” I mutter, zooming in on the fine print at the bottom of the page. I still have to squint to read it.
Thank you for your interest in Eden. Customarily, invitations are chosen at random on nights of operation: Wednesday through Sunday. If you’re chosen, you’ll be notified via text at 7 PM. Good luck, and if you are not selected, we encourage you to keep trying.
I can’t decide if it’s pretentious or enticing, but I hover my fingers over the keyboard, chipped blush pink nails poised to type. Trisha knew exactly what she was doing. That curiosity would get the best of me because, aside from the webpage, the place is nonexistent. For what seems like hours, I tell myself what a bad idea it is to submit my information. This city never sleeps, so there have got to be other clubs to research. Ones that aren’t shrouded in mystery. Clubs that are safe.
But the second that word crosses my brain again, my frown deepens and the pads of my fingers meet the keys. I’ve been safe for the last six years.
And safe has already screwed up my book, so what do I have to lose?
*
Three days. I enter my name in the Eden lottery three days in a row, and each time I mentally kick myself. The place probably won’t live up halfway to the mystery and hype surrounding it. And yet, it’s already pulled me in.
I’m about to brew another pot of coffee and settle down for a wild Saturday evening of writer’s block when my phone vibrates on my little black desk with the view of the fire escape. Mug in hand, I peek down at my phone and do a double take at the text from an unknown number.
The only content of the message is a shortened link that I click on without stopping to think that it might be a porn virus or god knows what else. Thankfully, it’s another simple landing page designed in the same black and green color scheme from Eden’s website. This time, though, there’s an address. And a note.
Congratulations, Sinner. We’ll see your party of two tonight. And do dress to impress.
“Congratulations, Sinner,” I say, shaking my head as I call Trisha. She answers on the fourth ring, yawning.
“You couldn’t text? I wrote from midnight ‘til four.”
“I just got an invite. For Eden.”
And then, she comes to life, choking down her second yawn, replacing it with an excited squeal that almost makes me drop the phone into my empty mug. “That fast?” She’s breathless. Like I just told her I scored tickets to watch Ryan Reynolds jack off. “You did put me down as your plus one, right?”
“It could be you taking a plus one if you’d just tell me about the place,” I point out, and at her silence, I groan. “I’m not the nightclub type, Trish. Plus, I’ve got to write.”
My gaze immediately lands on my laptop screen, lingering on the cursor blinking over the word “possess.” I’ve revised four pages since our lunch together the other day. Four pages out of 439. I’m so screwed.
“You’ll be able to write more if you go,” she reminds me, as if she can see my screen. “I’ll be at your place at ten?”
“What happened to being tired?”
“Sleep can wait. See you then.”
And just as promised, she buzzes my apartment a few minutes before nine. I meet her outside at the curb where she’s already hailed a cab. I’m frantically blowing on my freshly painted nails, but stop short, my breath squeezing in my throat when she spins around, one hand on her hip, red nails tapping impatiently.
I live in leggings and sweatshirts. The only impressive item I found in my closet was the dress I wore to Essence’s release party back in October. It’s white lace with a nude underlay. Long-sleeved with a fitted skirt that stops several inches above my bare knees. The plunging neckline shows off my breasts, but I feel like a virgin bride beside Trisha. She’s in a black jumpsuit, complete with strategic cut-outs and an open back, her long brown hair gathered in a high ponytail and siren red lipstick painting her lips. There’s nothing wrong with the way I look. My mother called my features—the round face and delicate nose and rosebud mouth—gamine, and my father always swore my eyes weren’t green but chartreuse. If the sun catches my hair just right, it’s platinum, not blond. And I came to terms with my vertical impairment, all five-foot-one-and-a-half inches of it, years ago. There is nothing wrong with the way I look, but beside Trisha, I am plain.
A tiny mouse in white.
“This is a bad idea.” I start to cross my arms over my midsection but remember my drying nail polish. I drop my arms awkwardly at my sides. “I look stupid.”
“Hush, child, and get in the car.” She gestures to the inside of the cab like it’s a game show prize then trails her gaze over my body. “A
nd you look perfect.”
I suck in my cheeks as she climbs into the taxi after me. “Perfect for Sunday service.”
Her red-lipped grin widens. “All the better.”
It’s a twenty-minute cab ride from my apartment to the club in Brooklyn, and I fidget with my hands the entire time, chipping the new coat of nail polish away as I listen intently while Trisha tells me about the chapter she wrote earlier this afternoon. She’s in the middle of explaining how she’s un-clichéd the classic tossing-the-drink-in-the-heroes-face when the cab rolls to a stop.
She grins, her gaze focusing behind me. “We’re here.”
I turn quickly and my eyes immediately bug out when I come face to face with a building taking up the entire corner of the block. Nave roof. High-rising spires. Stained glass.
This isn’t a nightclub. It’s an old church.
“Is it on the other side or something?” But I already know the answer because everything clicks into place at once—from Trisha dancing around the club’s name to her comment about my Sunday service attire. “You could’ve told me the club was in a church.”
“Former church and now it’s a nightclub.” She passes the driver his fare then winks at me. “And there’s another in Chelsea and one in Vegas. You want inspiration? This is the place.”
I start to tell the driver to take me back to my apartment. Really, I do because I can hear my momma’s voice in my head, swearing that I’ll catch fire the second I step over the threshold. But then that word rattles around in my brain again. Safe. Safe. Safe. Going back to my apartment is safe. Glaring at my computer screen until the words blur and my head throbs is safe. And none of that is going to get my story fixed. So, I get out of the taxi. Adjust my pure dress around my hips. Tell myself I won’t go to hell for walking into this building.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” She nudges my shoulder with hers as we take our place in the line leading up to the gothic archway.
“Tell that to my soul,” I mutter, but I put on my best version of a confident smile when it’s our turn to show our invitation to the doorman.
He’s a big guy—the kind of a man who looks like he spends half his time in the gym and the other half researching new steroid suppliers—and he looks over my ID for a long time before he hands it back and shakes his head. “Nice try, sweetheart. Now get the fuck out of my face before I call the cops.”
My head jerks back in surprise. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The fake Mississippi license. Go home, play with your dolls, and come back in four years when you’re old enough.”
“I am old enough,” I start at the same time Trisha announces, “Are you kidding? She’s twenty-four.”
He swivels his gaze to her, narrowing his eyes. “And take the loud bitch with you.”
By this time, the crowd behind us has multiplied, but Trisha’s not having it, not even when I start to pull her back toward the curb to hail another cab. She’s mid-argument when someone inside the club clears their throat and the bouncer stiffens.
“What’s the problem, Hal?” That voice. Oh, Lord, that voice. It’s deep and velvety and rips the breath straight of my lungs and my stare from the sidewalk to get a good look at its owner. “Hal?” he repeats, impatience creeping in.
Despite his enormous size, the doorman flushes. Bowing his head, he takes a step to the right to give the other man room. For a pause when I can’t breathe or move, he stands in the doorway, but then he moves forward and my throat tightens. His voice suits him. To exquisite perfection. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a narrow waist, chestnut brown hair that's tousled and parted messily on one side, stubble kissing his jawline. His black suit is a glove on his muscular frame, and his large hands, tattooed with numerals and intricate art, reach up to readjust his slim red tie. Piercing eyes—blue-green with flecks of gold around the pupils—dart my way, appraising me carefully as he steps out beneath the harsh street lights.
“Is there a problem?” His volume never rises, but that voice is twice as intense.
Even Trisha, who’s always so relaxed around men, looks flustered. She blinks, clears her throat and says, “Your boy, Hal, won’t take her ID and told her to go play with her dolls. Un-fucking-believable.” I’m not looking her way—I can’t tear my eyes from him—but knowing her, she’s got one hand on her hip and the other wagging a finger in his direction. “Please tell me you’re his manager and your customer service skills aren’t as ass-backward as his?”
The Voice grants her a tight-lipped smile without ever glancing her way. He holds his hand out until it’s mere inches from my waist, and I automatically suck in a harsh breath of air that makes my belly ache.
“The ID.” He doesn’t ask for it. Doesn’t even shoot for a professional tone. Instead, he expects me to jump to do his bidding.
And my fingers are already wrapped around the edges of the card, trembling as they extend toward him. He makes sure not to let our skin touch, but I swear I feel the heat radiating from his fingertips.
He studies my license. The longer he takes, the more my stomach burns, until it's a task to stand upright by the time he looks up at me.
“Michaela Bowick.” Most people don’t pronounce my name right, but he does. Mi-shay-la, not Mi-kay-la. He’s still giving me that taut look, but now amusement settles on his lips. “Influenced by the author?”
“She is the author,” Trisha speaks up, and his brows shift a little higher.
“You’re Michael Bowick?” he questions me directly, still refusing to acknowledge her. “I’m a big fan, but I’ve got to say, you’re looking very … peaches and cream and alive.”
Peaches and cream. My throat clenches, so the single word I manage comes out wheezed. “No.” I shake my head. Then nod. I feel like an idiot—a tiny, ridiculous idiot. My hands are still trembling as I reach out for my ID and the words tumble from my lips like vomit. “Michael Bowick … he’s—was—my father. Look, I can just go home and…”
I can go home and stare at my computer screen and pretend to be an author who knows her shit.
He keeps my license in his grasp as he closes the gap between our bodies. “No, stay.” Another command that sends shivers down my spine. “Unless you’d rather be playing with dolls.”
Heat flares across my skin. “I promise, no playing for me.”
His eyes settle on the swell of my breasts beneath the deep V neckline of my white dress before his blue irises snap back to mine. “Shame,” he murmurs.
I release a rushed breath. Take another step backward.
His grin spreads, wicked and unnerving.
And I flush like a virgin in white lace, standing in front of a church, asking to be let in by the devil incarnate.
Tilting his head to the side, he holds out his hand, and I almost release a sigh of relief when he presses the stiff plastic in my palm. This time we touch. And the electricity spirals through my body, through my veins, to my heart. I clear my throat and stare at the sidewalk because it’s safe. “I really should go...”
“Stay. It’s not a request, it’s what I want.” My eyes ping up to his and blue irises burn into mine for a moment longer before he puts space between us. He offers me a ghost of a smile. “And Michaela? Tell the bartender Cain said your drinks are on the house.”
“Cain,” I repeat.
That expression returns, the grin that swallows me whole and refuses to spit me out. “That would be the owner of Eden, Miss Bowick.” He takes one last look at me before starting toward the doors. “Me.”
It’s only after the doorman begrudgingly lets Trisha and me in, and the sound of “Suffer” beats into my skull, and the dim lighting turns everything and anyone sexy, that I replay the conversation and his name in my mind.
Cain. The owner of Eden. The nightclub in an old church.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to say a big thank you to the incredible team at HEA Press—Rebecca and Abby�
�and Candi Kane, PR extraordinaire. Y'all rock. Thank you for always being so incredible.
To my “Your Toxic Sequel Support Group” on Facebook, thank you ladies so much for making me smile on a daily basis and supporting my books. Love you girls!
Thank you to my INCREDIBLE beta readers and wonderful friends: Michelle Valentine, Stacey Lewis, and Lisa N. Paul. Your suggestions were wonderful.
To Anna Croswell, my cover designer—this cover is GORGEOUS! I also want to thank Sara Eirew for taking the image that perfectly captured Senator Sexy-Ass. You ladies are so very talented!!!
To all my amazing author friends—you guys kick ass. Thank you, thank you, thank you to my colleagues who gave His Pawn an early look. You guys had such wonderful things to say about my dirty talking senator, and I’m so blessed to be a part of such a great, caring community. Lots of love to you all.
To the bloggers in the romance community—THANK YOU! Your support and love for my books mean so much to me. I appreciate you all more than you could ever imagine. Thank you for taking such good care of me and all the other indie authors.
And last, but certainly not least, to YOU. Thank you so for being so bleeping fantastic. Your enthusiasm and support for my books never cease to amaze me. Thank you for all the emails, reviews, and messages! They always put a smile on my face.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Snow is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of erotic, new adult, and contemporary romance. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about all three. She lives in Virginia with her husband, children, and one very energetic Yorkie-Poo.
For new book info and fun freebies, visit her website at https://www.emilysnowbooks.net/